


Made Hungry By Time

by magnificentbastards



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, facepunching, using history for my own nefarious purposes, writing fight scenes like they're sex scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificentbastards/pseuds/magnificentbastards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which England upholds the timeless British values of Honour and Chivalry by punching France repeatedly in the face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made Hungry By Time

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t find a handy Wiki entry about Henry VIII’s French campaign so I will attempt to explain it myself.
> 
> England under Henry VIII invaded France in 1513 with the intention of winning back the crown of France for England and gaining Fame and Honour and suchlike. He won a few battles pretty quickly, including taking the fortress of Tournai (which is now in Belgium), and to an extent used a lot of the ‘methods’ he’d used in the Hundred Years’ War- murdering and pillaging everything he came across.
> 
> The French were understandably not very happy about this, so they retaliated by, um, writing poetry. Lots of poetry. The title of this fic comes from one of those poems. (There’s even one depicting the town itself as having been raped. It’s called “The Loss of Tournai’s Virginity, with her Tears and Lamentations Following her Deflowering”. /I know/. I’ve been trying to find the whole thing online, but no luck so far.)
> 
> After a while France sidled up to England and said “This is all getting a bit tedious, and anyway I need to go and fight that Holy Roman Empire guy instead, so if I give you a lot of money will you go away?” And England decided "Yeah, I'm cool with that". This happened several times. So much for the pursuit of honour. THE END. (and then there was that thing with the cloth of gold, but that's another story.)

**Tournai, France  
September 1513**

England drags the back of his hand across his lower lip and isn’t surprised to find it smeared with blood.

 _Well,_ he thinks, grinding his teeth on the inside of his cheek to aggravate the soreness there, _one must suffer for the sake of honour the dishonourable,_ and stands straight, straighter, again, pushing himself with his elbows off the wall France’s blow had knocked him into. He’d try for a smirk but he can feel the side of his mouth swelling or sagging or both, so he won’t, and satisfies himself with the less subtle threats of his appearance- his fists are clenched but the knuckles keep moving, rhythmically, wave-like and that’s appropriate in itself, and there’s a dirty bruise rising on his chin, black and green to match his doublet. England wonders if there’ll be new slashes in it before this is through.   
   
He sweeps off his hat and places it on the worn stone behind him, as though this is a fight between gentlemen. 

"And here I was under the impression I had already won this battle,” he says, and already he’s assessing, remembering France’s newest or dearest wounds and planning the ways in which he’ll exasperate them. He scans the keep too, steadies his boot on the dirt ground still wet from that morning’s rain, ensuring that those of his men who are keeping watch and likely watching their nation, proving his point by their presence alone, will staywhere they are; _their_ fight is done.

France stands a few feet away slightly uneven, the hand with dirtied knuckles pulled back snakelike. He hasn’t moved since he sent England sprawling, and his face is hard and angry but that only emphasises the shadows under his eyes. He looks tired; England revels in the knowledge that it’s his doing.

“Do you mean to say,” France replies, slightly breathless, “that the days when I needed no reason to indulge in a fight with you are passed?” The next part of that goes unsaid by both of them, and largely un _thought_ by England, who won’t allow himself to- this time he _does_ smirk, regardless of the aesthetics, takes a step forward and he would speak but France moves too, faster, slams his shoulder into England’s collarbone and that slams the breath out of him, leaves him gasping as they both stagger backwards. 

France throws his hands out, framing England’s shoulders, and England chokes as he hits the wall again but hasn’t the time to compose himself- he weaves down and left, out of the way of France’s fist and hopes it connects with stone, isn’t so lucky. But no matter: he takes advantage of the opening that France’s outstretched arm makes to turn and drive his elbow into France’s ribs, relishing the resulting gasp of pain.   
   
And they’re both panting now, competing for air; England fashions words from his: “You waste your energy. It-“ he twists his foot in the damp earth, grounding himself, sways a little because you don’t stay still in a situation like this “-would be better spent making this shack hospitable for my soldiers.” 

“I’d have maidservants to do that if it weren’t for the _affections_ of _your soldiers_ ,” France spits, and the look he shoots England is as brutal as his words, hollow, with or full of or rooted in hatred. That’s nothing new, so England laughs, and it’s short but only because he cuts it off ducking out of the way of France’s hand groping for his throat- the noise had been mirthless at first, and it dies with an angry exhalation- England throws and follows a punch of his own and the dull thump of that spurs him on. 

“Grant my men some small reward-“ A knee to his ribs, or rather the right of them; he’d already started to dodge it and would have entirely if he hadn’t been distracted by their verbal sparring, which is doubtless just as important as the physical, and almost as satisfying. The laugh has been stripped away entirely, and all that’s left is the malice that inspired it, but if France wants to break him down then he ought to be prepared for what he’ll find- “-or do you only permit indulgence when it’s your own?”

France has taken two paces back (the coward) and is circling. 

And they mirror each other, eyes narrowed and furious, chests heaving, fists, bruises. France clears his throat in what becomes more of a cough than he intended, and spits something red-white and glutinous onto the dirt where it mingles horribly with the mud. The exertion is growing and clogging in England too, coating the back of his throat, and his swallowing does little good.   
   
England shouldn’t have to remind himself that he’s already _been_ victorious. Curling his lip (the unblemished one) he charges at France with a kick that connects just above his kneecap, England _hears_ it, and then pulls his leg back from France’s clutching fingers even as he grabs the shoulders of France’s jerkin, digs his nails in through the padding, and uses his own weight to force France backwards into the wall. 

France- well, if he didn’t expect that he at least knows how to deal with it- and with the momentum of that throw springs back forward and _turns_ so all at once England is in what was France’s place, pinned against the stone and doubled over backwards, his spine bending in odd places. France snarls a hand in England’s hair to drag his head back and bare his neck and England can hear the breath hissing through France’s teeth, and feel it, too, as he hovers at the junction of England’s jawbone- “Your punishment is indulgence enough.” 

The short derisive sound England makes at that is too strained to be a laugh, but if nothing else it impels him to tear his right arm out of that grip and grab France’s throat. France’s smugness is choked out of him with that first impact, or ingested again in the involuntary swallow England can feel against his fingers, and he’s tenting and digging his nails further in like arrowheads so they dent the pale, dirty skin. 

His grin is one-sided but no less malicious for it, and France’s eyes are made of more white than usual, and twitching. 

England’s back is still pressed against uneven stone, the pain of that crawling up his spine, so he tightens his grip on France’s throat and uses that to anchor himself, not quite fast and not quite solid, and drag himself up but France’s hands are free and as soon as England moves they’re up, grasping his wrist and pulling, scrabbling at the skin with nails and leaving brief little white lines as they do so. France’s right hand thrusts forward and- whether or not he was aiming for England’s neck in turn- the palm collides hard with England’s face, sending pain shooting down his jaw and swelling brilliantly in his lip. The shock of that shudders up his nose and he’s momentarily unbalanced by the fact that he can’t _see_ and France’s fingers are dangerously close to his eye sockets- it’s only their frantic scratching and twitching that’s keeping them far enough away-

Whether it’s pain alone or self-preservation that prompts it, he releases his hold on France’s neck, and that’s greeted by a choking, coughing exhale, and the tightening of the fingers dragging down his cheekbones. England won’t have it; with his now-free hand he drives a punch into France’s stomach and that’s enough to prompt him to let go, gasping, scratch at England’s throat and snare his fingers in England’s ruff, instead. 

France pulls him forward by it (England can hear the lace ripping), clawing at the skin underneath, pulls him so their faces are inches apart, if that, mussed and muddy hair and marks and scratches and bared teeth, and holds him there as though to shake him by the neck like an animal that’s misbehaved. England meets France’s eyes without seeing them, without permitting himself to see them, growls “I am not yours to punish,” and France is halfway through choking out “No, I do God’s work here,” when England knees him in the bollocks. 

France crumples, bent double, and England’s foot helps him down.

So England follows him, _sparking_ with malicious triumph and throwing out one hand to curl in France’s hair and claw into his scalp as he drives his left knee into the small of France’s back, pinning him there. The wet earth they’ve stirred up is inches thick now, and clogging, and England watches it ooze into France’s powder blue and white silk hose and hopes they cost a small fortune, because that certainly won’t wash out. 

He relishes the sensation of France writhing underneath him, and presses his leg down harder, grinding the bones in France’s spine against each other- France has mud and blood and his own hair clogging in his mouth and he’s attempting to spit them out, to _talk_ , and while England enjoys watching France ensnare himself he really doesn’t want to listen to whatever is going to come out of that mouth next, so he tightens his grip in France’s hair and slams his head down into two clear inches of mud and hopes that France’s mouth is still open when he hits the ground. 

England watches France struggle, and reminisces. 

After a few seconds he yanks on the hair now smeared dark brown and plastered to his fingers, pulls France’s head up- it leaves the mud with a squelching sucking _pop_ \- and presses down on France’s back to give him the momentum to stand up and kick France over. England drives the heel of one shoe into France’s chest to keep him sprawled on his back with the dirt lining his sleeves, beginning to cake in filthy pauldrons on his shoulders, hair matted, still spitting clods of mud stained red out of his mouth and panting hard. 

England takes a few steps backwards, slowly, picks his hat back up and places it on his head, hoping it will cast his eyes into shadow. He steps over France as he walks away.


End file.
